


Abaddon

by Janissa11



Category: CSI: Las Vegas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-22
Updated: 2009-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-03 14:30:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janissa11/pseuds/Janissa11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads, to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams. (Bram Stoker)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abaddon

It's stupid, what he's doing, and he knows it. Childish. Sulky. One fight, and he's out tarting it up like he's single again, as if it doesn't matter, there's no tomorrow.

Granted, it was one hell of a fight. And he isn't completely sure Gil isn't out doing the same thing Nick is. But probably not. Gil is probably home, drinking brandy and processing all of it, the way he does. So infernally, infuriatingly logical. Just thinking about it raises Nick's blood pressure another twenty points, and he's pretty sure it was already stratospheric.

And so in spite of the fact that he knows it's reactionary, or maybe because of it, because it's so predictable and NOT logical, he's put on leather pants and a tight shirt and fuck, he looks hot, yeah, might not have done much clubbing lately but he still knows how to show off the goods when he wants to, and he does tonight. He preens a little in front of the mirror and checks his teeth, and when a spasm of uneasiness shivers down his spine

_what's Gil doing was this it was this It is it really over or just_

he forces it down and grabs his wallet and keys on his way out the door.

The first place he goes is dead, and he has one drink and flirts desultorily with the bartender, neither one of them all that into it, before he decides to go look for greener pastures. He finds them down the street, what used to be called the Red House back when he was single but is now under new ownership and called Abaddon. It's a cave of a club, several big rooms and dozens of little ones, dark and smoky and pulsing with the industrial crap he never listens to anymore, and suddenly relishes. Throbbing in his arms, his chest, his groin, humming in his teeth. All red and black, the bouncer standing like a 300-pound man-shaped demon guarding the mouth of Hell.

Nifty. Nick pays the stiff cover charge and wanders inside.

This is where the people are who weren't anywhere else. It's packed, and he's walked maybe fifteen feet before somebody gives his ass a fast squeeze. He doesn't look to see who it is, but he grins, shakes it a little, and hunts for the bar. It's a wait to order, but the result is worth it: an ice-tea-glass's worth of mostly straight booze, enough for a hangover all on its own, and he sips and scans the main room. Everyone's smiling, such pretty glitzy people, glad to be out just like he is, and he thinks, Aw, screw you, Gil, for once I'm just gonna have FUN. The way you don't ever let me, not anymore.

He's gotten about halfway through his gigantic drink and nearly to the opposite end of the room, within glancing distance of the hallway to the next area, when some guy grabs his wrist and tugs him out on the dance floor. Not bad looking at all, no sir, and it feels like decades since he's gone dancing, so he goes with it, lets the cardiac throb of music push and pull him, and exchanges mute grins with his partner. Who, as the music segues seamlessly into another similar song, turns to talk to someone, and Nick wafts across the huge dance floor, alone in the crush of people and not minding it, still clutching his glass of booze. His hips move all on their own, slow shimmy against the wall of industrial sound, and then he's moving down the hallway, undulating with all the others in a kind of techno-beat peristalsis, emptying out into another huge cavern of a room. Tables here, many more, alcoves filled with people in dark glamorous clothing, and the light is redder, giving everyone a flattering look of feverish joy.

There are no free tables, but a man in a black jacket meets his eyes, lifts his chin, and Nick sits in the single empty chair, downing the rest of his drink and setting the glass on the table.

And just for a second, or maybe a few seconds, he thinks, Maybe this wasn't such a great idea. Because meeting the guy's gaze is like staring into a furnace pit: the man has hot black eyes, sparking and utterly mesmerizing, the way it feels when Nick looks over the edge of a tall roof, or the drop in his stomach the first time he rappelled off a cliff. The guy isn't even all that good-looking, and Nick can't tear his eyes away. His ears are ringing. It isn't the music.

"Would you like another?"

What's really weird is, the guy isn't shouting, and Nick can hear his voice as clearly as if they'd been in a deserted high-ceilinged chapel. He should have to scream to be heard over this din of music, but he looks calm, composed, a little amused. His voice is raspy as fine-grained sandpaper, rubbing pleasurably over Nick's skin.

"Sure," Nick says, and he isn't screaming, either. The music has been turned down. That, or this table comes with its own miniature forcefield. He's a little drunk, maybe more than a little, and he can't really tell.

A girl dressed all in matte black brings two glasses, as soon as he's agreed. It isn't what he's been drinking; it's dark, like Jaegermeister or something, and it's served in wide-bottomed snifters. He takes one, sure that he ought to be suspicious of something, but unclear on what that might be.

The man raises his own glass and eyes him calmly. "Cheers."

The drink tastes like chocolate and anise and cherries, and it's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. It curls down his throat like fragrant smoke, warm and thick.

"My name is Tobias," the man tells him, and sets his glass on the table before reaching out one hand. "I haven't seen you here before."

Nick shakes his hand, taking in the heat of his palm, the way the subtle tightening of his fingers makes the smoky drink warm in his belly. "Nick. I haven't been here. Not in a long time. It was called something else then." He's babbling. Somehow he's sitting closer to Tobias, and he doesn't recall moving. He wonders suddenly what sort of cologne a man like this wears.

"It was something else then," Tobias says with a gracious smile. "I changed it."

Nick blinks. "You own it?"

Tobias nods and glances around them. At the open throat of his black shirt Nick can see a pendant, a perfect blood-red teardrop. It ought to look girly, but it doesn't, not on him. "Didn't have to change that much. A little here, a touch there. It was already well on its way when I acquired it." His eyes return to Nick. "Why are you here, Nick?"

Nick kills time by sipping that wonderful drink again, and the taste is apples now, apples and vanilla and tart cranberry. He can feel it, the warmth in his stomach trailing like fumes to his brain, making the lights fuzzy, the air a little too hot. "Just –- out," he says unsteadily, unsure. "No agenda."

"Having fun?"

"I guess."

"You remind me of someone I used to know." Tobias reaches out to touch his glass, but doesn't pick it up. He has long, graceful fingers, big hands. "A very long time ago. He had your eyes. Your smile."

Nick's cautious smile falters, meeting Tobias's eyes. "Who?"

"A very good man," Tobias says slowly. "But as I said, it was a very long time ago. You would perhaps be surprised at just how long."

He wonders what it would be like to kiss someone like Tobias. "Tell me," Nick whispers. His drink is pure herbs now, not sharp like Jaegermeister but cool and sweet and aromatic. A tiny headache has blossomed, behind the bridge of his nose. He ignores it.

Tobias shrugs. "He was never my lover, although I very much wanted him to be." His eyes glint in the light. "Do you have a lover, Nick?"

Nick nods slowly. "Yeah."

"Does he know you're here?"

"I don't know. No."

Tobias smiles, a sardonic curl of his lips. "Would he care?" he asks easily.

"I don't know."

Tobias's knee presses against Nick's leg. They are sitting very close now, and Nick can't smell any cologne at all. "Would you like to kiss me?" Tobias asks.

"Yes," Nick mumbles.

Tobias's lips are very warm, and Nick can't taste the marvelous drink on his tongue. Can't taste anything at all.

"You're sweet," Tobias breathes against Nick's lips. "What a pleasure."

Dizzily Nick leans his head to one side, eyelids fluttering as they kiss again, deeper this time. He wants -- He can't think what he wants, except the feel of Tobias's fiery-warm hand on his thigh. He's desperately hard, and Gil isn't here.

"Not such a good boy as people think," Tobias says, and slides his hand between Nick's legs. Nick gives a breathless sigh of sound, leaning closer, and the red pendant gleams in his vision, bright as if lit from inside. "Not nearly so good."

He groans when Tobias kisses his throat, and opens his eyes. Behind them, the girl in black stands with tears streaming down her cheeks. Her clothes are torn, streaked with pale mud, and as he watches, bemused, she brings a hand to her face and presses one long dirty fingernail against her open eye.

He gasps, and Tobias's grip tightens, luxuriant, confidently squeezing him until he can't take a breath, until he's humping mindlessly and watching in wondering horror as the girl's eye gives an audible sodden pop, clear fluid like viscous tears spurting over her hand.

Nick wails, closing his eyes tightly, and comes inside his tight leather pants, jerking and keening and pressing hard against Tobias's hot hand.

When he opens his eyes, slow with dread, the girl is gone. Tobias regards him with that same detached amusement, still massaging Nick's crotch. "There you go," he says evenly.

His voice is no longer pleasant, buzzing oddly in Nick's ears. Beyond the quiet circle around their table, the light is dimmer, and yet he can see more. The dancers look less like they're having fun, more as if they're struggling against an unseen rip tide, fighting to keep their balance while something sucks eagerly at their feet. A scream, thin and wavering and utterly hopeless, raises the short hairs on the back of Nick's neck.

"Have another drink," Tobias says in his broken-glass voice. His eyes are filled with flame, and he smells now, smells like something fetid and unclean, stagnant and repulsive. "It's on me, I promise."

His glass is half-full of black liquid, and he inhales the ghastly swamp smell of it and coughs, instinctively thrusting the glass away. It tips off the edge of the table and shatters, and smoke curls from the smear on the floor. His stomach lurches, and he swallows bile and gasps, "What is this?"

Tobias shrugs and sips his drink. Nick sees, with a curious and total lack of surprise, that it looks very much like blood. "Truth in advertising. Nothing more."

Nick stands suddenly, and the bubble of quiet pops. The din is terrible: squawking, insane bursts of noise, like the music inside a madman's mind. There is screaming, and sobbing, and he can hear someone calling a name, Thomas, Thomas, oh God, Thomas where are you, I can't see you, don't leave me here, please come back, Thomas.

His foot slips in the rotten smear on the floor, and he grabs the chair and meets Tobias's flaming eyes, feels Tobias's fingers close like a vise on his wrist. "Leaving so soon?" Tobias whispers, and grins for the first time. His teeth are narrow and sharp, and lined in two rows bottom and top, like a shark's. He pulls Nick's arm until his wrist is exposed, and lays a single finger on his pulse. "A memento," Tobias whispers. "For when we meet again."

Nick cries out sharply and yanks his arm back. On his wrist is a red blister, in the shape of a perfect teardrop.

"Now you can go," Tobias says carelessly, and turns to look out at the writhing mass of bodies. "You aren't him. You never are."

Nick stares at the throbbing blister, and then staggers away, flailing for the way back to the passageway, to the door.

* * *

He doesn't remember driving, but at some point he's at Gil's door, and his hands shake so badly he has to make several tries before he gets the key to turn. And then the door is open, and Gil is standing in the hallway, dressed in jeans and a sweater, not gone to bed yet, his familiar face tense with worry and anger.

"You scared the crap out of me," he snaps, that familiar wonderful voice. "What –-"

"Gil," Nick gasps, and flings his arms around Gil's neck, ignores Gil's startled look and buries his face against Gil's throat, inhales his spicy, clean, familiar smell. He is aware of his own smell now, body odor and smoke and other, less definable things. It turns his stomach, and he breathes Gil in again, feels the floor steady beneath his feet.

Gil's arms curl around him, strong and shaking a bit. "God, Nicky," Gil murmurs. "Where have you been?"

"It was a –- club," Nick gasps. His eyes sting with tears; he's exhausted, out of nowhere. His back hurts, his feet are aching. "But I don't know. I don't know."

"Come on." Gil retreats enough to stare into Nick's wet eyes, and his face crumples with something like relief. "You're home. That's what counts."

It's Gil who gets him to undress, to take off the shreds of his filthy tee shirt and peel away the sodden leather pants. His shoes are gone; his feet are caked with mud and other things, and he's cut himself on something. Broken glass. The cuts sting sharply.

He stands shivering in the shower, the hot water pouring over his shoulders, sluicing through his matted hair. Gil is there, with soap and shampoo and careful hands, rinsing the blood from Nick's hands, from his face and his body. His questions have stopped. He is silent, and grim, and when he meets Nick's eyes his are terrified.

Gil dresses him in warmth, sweats and the heavy hooded sweatshirt he got last year in Alaska, and seats him on the toilet to wrap his feet in gauze. And when all of it is done, when he no longer stinks or bleeds, Gil leads him into the living room and makes coffee, and watches him drink.

"Are you hungry?" Gil asks, perching next to him on the sofa. "You're so thin."

Nick gulps coffee and welcomes the heat, the feeling of coming alive inside. "Yes," he says raspily. "I'm really hungry. I don't get it."

"How long since you've eaten?"

"I had supper. A while ago." He tries to think of how long –- maybe six hours? –- but he isn't sure. "A while ago," he repeats, and drinks the rest of the wonderfully hot coffee.

Gil makes food, and Nick's hands shake while he eats, stuffing his mouth too full, barely tasting it as a chasm opens in his belly, a screaming maw of hunger that allows nothing else in its urgency, its utter command to be sated. He looks up once, his hands gripping a chunk of bread so tightly his fingers dig all the way through to his palms, and sees Gil gazing wordlessly at him, face drawn with horror and pity.

When the food is gone, Gil wipes Nick's face with a towel, and says, "It's all right. It'll be all right, Nicky."

Nick gazes at him, and whispers, "I don't think it will."

Gil's mouth tightens, and he yanks Nick against him, plastering their bodies together.

Nick slides his arms around Gil's neck, and sees the red mark on his wrist. Pulsing with his heartbeat, livid as blood.

"Where were you?" Gil whispers. "Jesus, Nicky, where did you go? I nearly lost my mind. You were gone so long."

Nick squeezes his eyes shut. "How long?"

"Nearly two weeks. Everyone –- Everyone's been looking for you. I thought you were d –-" Gil's voice breaks, and he doesn't say anything more.

The mark throbs. Nick covers it with his other hand, and burrows against Gil's solidity.

* * *

After it's all settled down, after his mysterious disappearance has become memory, he very quietly goes downtown one day, without Gil's knowledge. He tells the man he sees that he doesn't care what design he uses. It's just to cover it up.

But, the man says, looking puzzled. It's such great work. How did you get that clear a red? And the technique. Excellent.

Cover it up, Nick says woodenly.

The tattoo is black, solid black, a ring around his wrist. The red is subsumed, and he welcomes the pain of it. Eagerly. Yes, yes, dark as pitch. That's it.

Gil regards the swollen inky black tattoo that night, and frowns, and says nothing.

The next morning, in the shower, Nick sees the perfect white skin of his wrist, feels the pulse beating over the glowing red teardrop, and stands motionless for a very long time, time enough for the water to grow cold.

 

END


End file.
